Mobilizing New York: AIDS, Antipoverty, and Feminist Activism

Summary

Examining three interconnected case studies, Tamar Carroll powerfully demonstrates the ability of grassroots community activism to bridge racial and cultural differences and effect social change. Drawing on a rich array of oral histories, archival records, newspapers, films, and photographs from post–World War II New York City, Carroll shows how poor people transformed the antipoverty organization Mobilization for Youth and shaped the subsequent War on Poverty. Highlighting the little-known National Congress of Neighborhood Women, she reveals the significant participation of working-class white ethnic women and women of color in New York City's feminist activism. Finally, Carroll traces the partnership between the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power (ACT UP) and Women's Health Action Mobilization (WHAM!), showing how gay men and feminists collaborated to create a supportive community for those affected by the AIDS epidemic, to improve health care, and to oppose homophobia and misogyny during the culture wars of the 1980s and 1990s. Carroll contends that social policies that encourage the political mobilization of marginalized groups and foster coalitions across identity differences are the most effective means of solving social problems and realizing democracy.

Guided by feminist and antiracist perspectives, this series examines the construction and influence of gender and sexuality within the full range of America’s cultures. Investigating in deep context the ways in which gender works with and against such markers as race, class, and region, the series presents outstanding interdisciplinary scholarship, including works in history, literary studies, religion, folklore, and the visual arts. In so doing, Gender and American Culture seeks to reveal how identity and community are shaped by gender and sexuality.

A complete list of books published in Gender and American Culture is available at www.uncpress.unc.edu.

MOBILIZING

New York

AIDS, Antipoverty, and Feminist Activism

Tamar W. Carroll

The University of North Carolina Press

Chapel Hill

Publication of this book was supported in part by the Paul and Francena Miller Research

The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources. The University of North Carolina Press has been a member of the Green Press Initiative since 2003.

Preface

Making History

This book examines the ways in which otherwise ordinary New Yorkers participated in social movements that made history: the War on Poverty, second-wave feminism, and AIDS and reproductive rights activism. When I began this project, I had in mind a different subject: the intellectual and glamorous spokeswoman for American feminism, Gloria Steinem, whose archives are at Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts. When I visited Smith, archivist Nanci Young suggested I might be interested in a new collection, the records of the National Congress of Neighborhood Women (NCNW), founded by Janet Peterson in 1974–75. I had never heard of the group, but their brochure’s photograph of a multiracial group of confident, apparently working-class women on the steps of the U.S. capitol intrigued me, as did their list of Original Goals. They aspired to not only look seriously at sexism, but also to help women identify, perceive and assume power without feeling that it was a threat to family and to validate women as part of a family. They remarked that most poor people are women and expressed the hope that they could bridge [the] gap between black and white women whose issues were the same. And they wanted to build an organization that their mother felt comfortable in.¹

I found this list of goals exciting, in part because it contradicted much of what I thought I knew about American feminists in the 1970s: that they were mostly well-off, college-educated white women who yearned to break free from oppressive family obligations and were either rebelling against their own mothers, or being encouraged by aspiring or college-educated mothers who never felt that being a housewife with children was all that a woman could do.² Among these working-class women, I was especially curious to find out how they managed to reconcile women’s empowerment with strong family relationships. The NCNW’s vision appealed to me as a young woman raised in a conservative Irish Catholic household and drawn to the study of feminism; I valued gender equality yet loved my family members. Thus, I found understanding difference, and the obligation that women took upon themselves to work together across difference, intellectually compelling. The group of community activists in New York City that I studied formed coalitions across class, race, ethnicity, gender, and sexuality. From the beginning of my research I hoped to discover the productive role of difference in these coalitions.

Nanci Young was the first, but not the only archivist to help me hone my research questions. Michael Nash of New York University’s Tamiment Library led me to the records of Women’s Health Action and Mobilization (WHAM!), a group of reproductive rights feminists who partnered with gay men in the AIDS Coalition To Unleash Power (ACT UP) in the 1980s and 1990s. Like the NCNW, WHAM! intrigued me because it contradicted prevailing assumptions that lesbians and gay men had parted ways in the 1970s, and, like so many identity-based political movements of the post–World War II era, diverged to follow separate paths.³ In fact many historians of the United States still view political movements based on difference—a core value of identity politics—as a hindrance to social movements seeking to expand social justice.⁴ Once I discovered these archives, I began to doubt prevailing assumptions that a strong group identity is likely a barrier to social movement building, and I wanted to learn more about how these coalitions maneuvered within the difficult terrain of identity and power.

Meeting WHAM! organizer Elizabeth Meixell was another revelation. A woman in late middle age, she regularly dresses up as a nun and performs with a group of gay men in drag known as the Church Ladies for Choice, singing songs about reproductive rights. Before she would grant me access to the WHAM! records, Meixell wanted to make sure I was legitimate. Although she did not specifically say so, I imagine that she wanted to be confident that I would be fair and respectful, sympathetic but honest in my appraisal of the activism to which she has dedicated so much of her life. She invited me to join her at a series of counterprotests across New York City in response to the antigay demonstrations by opponents of Harvey Milk High School, and I conducted impromptu interviews on the spot.⁵ Fortunately, by virtue of continuing to show up, I passed the test. Meixell introduced me to the rest of the Church Ladies for Choice, whose subversive humor I saw in action several times, most notably during the historic April 2004 March for Women’s Lives in Washington, D.C., when almost a million people gathered to support reproductive rights. Watching Meixell and the Church Ladies perform taught me firsthand the importance of direct action and of supporting your partners in coalition, as well of being bold and laughing often.

When it came to my learning about Mobilization for Youth (MFY), a social welfare agency that became a model for the War on Poverty, I experienced a different kind of intellectual discovery. I had read about the welfare rights and legal services movements that grew out of Mobilization for Youth,⁶ but I wanted to better understand their origins, and especially the variety of interactions among social workers, lawyers, and low-income Puerto Rican and African American mothers living on New York’s Lower East Side. As I did more research, I discovered that NCNW founder Janice Peterson, as well as other feminist activists and scholars such as Rosalyn Baxandall, Barbara Hunter Randall Joseph, and Terry Mizrahi had all begun their careers in social work at MFY. This early cohort of organizers gained skills and experience at MFY that allowed them to transition seamlessly into the community activism that was taking place across New York City.

Like theirs, my story must begin with MFY. As community organizer Ezra Birnbaum once reminded me, MFY was an important pioneering organization, but its legacy can be assessed best by examining what kind of effect it ha[d] on other organizations and on the subsequent social movements such groups helped initiate.⁷ Through its popularization of the idea of maximum feasible participation within the policymaking process, MFY captured the early 1960s commitment to broadening the democratic promise of a nation that was still learning from the African American civil rights movement and its larger message that change was worth fighting for. This rich history continues to animate my optimism today.

In the more than fifty oral history interviews I conducted while researching this book, my narrators analyzed their personal political development as well as the successes and failures of the social movements for which they worked. Many viewed their childhoods and upbringings as crucial to the emergence of their political consciousness. Birnbaum, for example, explained how his family’s Orthodox Jewish background meant that the thrust for social justice in general was always present in the house.⁸ Similarly, the noted social theorist and welfare rights activist Frances Fox Piven recalled the influence of her Russian Jewish father in shaping her independence and her intellectual interests: I was always interested in social movements and social action. . . . I mean, I had to go to school because I was bred to be an intellectual. . . . [My] father, in particular expected [us] to [consider the question:] What do you want to be when you grow up? Getting married and having children was not an answer. It’s not. You’re supposed to get married and have children, but it was not an answer to the question.⁹ Public housing activist Ethel Velez shared Piven’s early consciousness of women’s equality: her first organizing project was establishing a girls’ basketball team in junior high when they were only letting the boys play. Growing up African American in a public housing project gave Velez a strong sense of community that translated into taking responsibility for one’s civic participation. Velez explained that she had always been organizing, even before she knew what the word meant. She participated in the antiwar and school integration movements when she was in high school in the 1960s; for her it was about just right and wrong.¹⁰

As I listened to the stories of their family backgrounds and experiences coming of age, my narrators also asked about my coming of age. Because several of my interviewees were Jewish and my first name, Tamar, is often understood to be a Hebrew name, while my last name is the Irish-sounding Carroll, my informants asked me about my ethnic identity. My mixed ancestry contains Welsh, Irish, and Albanian roots, but culturally my family is Massachusetts Irish Catholic, and I grew up in a prosperous suburb of Boston. Though one grandfather worked as a boiler inspector and attended night school with the assistance of the GI Bill to earn his engineering degree, my parents were the first in their families to attend college full-time. While I am not a native New Yorker, I nevertheless fell in love with the city when, as an undergraduate at the University of Massachusetts, I first visited the Big Apple.

Like Frances Fox Piven, my father encouraged me to pursue graduate education, and like Velez, my family nurtured in me a strong sense of civic engagement and of the obligation to fight for my belief in what was right. My mother, a woman so empathetic strangers often choose to tell her their life stories, taught me to be a good listener. That skill, along with my youth and status as a graduate student, helped me establish trust with my narrators. In my late twenties, as I gathered the experiences of women and men twice my age and even older, it became immediately clear that I was there to learn from them. My narrators were authorities of the past, and their stories attempted to explain both to me and themselves how they came to hold a feminist perspective. While some interviewees credited their upbringing in general for their social activism, others recalled a specific event that altered their understanding of how society worked. For a number of women, the difficulty of trying to obtain an abortion shaped not only their political consciousness, but also their understanding of a range of constraints, both legal and cultural, on women. Karen Stamm first became involved in women’s issues when she obtained an illegal abortion in 1963. She never forgot the hoops I had to jump through in order to get a psychiatric abortion. She made a commitment to myself that if the opportunity ever arose to fix the situation I was going to fix it.¹¹

Struggles to obtain reproductive freedom, economic independence, and day care for their children while they worked drew many women into community activism. For others, however, the death of relative or close friend from AIDS led to the development of a feminist consciousness. Virginia Kennedy’s uncle, a closeted gay man, became ill and died prematurely. The tragedy made her aware of how homophobia had shaped his life and his interactions with her parents, who were staunchly Roman Catholic. As a child, she recalled, the male authority figure was very prominent but she learn[ed] to start to resist this authoritarian paradigm. Her grief at her uncle’s death catalyzed a political and personal transformation. No longer an obedient woman, she became steadily more politically active, ultimately breaking with the Catholic Church, because she felt it had no place for me, for gay men, and for women who want to choose what to do with their bodies.¹²

My own feminism as well as my commitment to women’s history as a discipline also helped me establish trust with my narrators. Like me, many of them had been raised in traditional Catholic families and later developed a feminist consciousness. This enabled them to trust me, and sometimes even perceive me as a younger version of themselves, or as a younger sister. In addition, my training as a journalist and historian comes with it the assumption that we are primarily chroniclers of the past, rather than activists ourselves. Generally, my subjects accepted my attempts to record and interpret the past as accurately as I could and seemed pleased that I considered their work important enough to insist that their place in history be recognized. Often I was thanked for my persistence and hard work. It is also true that not everyone I contacted was willing to be interviewed. One person even opposed my attempt to gather WHAM! members together for a reflective reunion, feeling strongly that time could be better spent in activism itself, rather than in sentimental reminiscence.

After tracing their political development, my narrators discussed the challenges they encountered trying to achieve their goals. For some, the dangers of crossing boundaries were palpable. At the close of a few interviews, after I had already shut off my recorder, several present expressed fear for my safety; one even insisted on walking me out of her neighborhood. This kind concern indicated that they perceived me as other, vulnerable because of my outsider status and my appearance as a white woman from a background of relative privilege. These interactions reinforced the saliency of race and class difference, which shapes daily social relations in New York City.

My narrators helped me appreciate the courage involved in participating in cross-race and cross-class coalitional politics and the limitations of my own experience as a basis for understanding. They also changed the way I thought about priorities. Velez explained that after many years of organizing, when her Tenants’ Association finally won federal funds to renovate the public housing complex where they lived, the first thing on their agenda was building a six-foot fence around the perimeter to keep out people with guns who were running through the grounds.¹³ Before that conversation, I had never thought of fences as an asset to social justice activism, but Velez taught me that unless people feel safe it is hard to work on other issues. This book celebrates not only what I learned from women like Velez, but also the strengths and insights that diverse people and perspectives can bring to social movements. On the other hand, it also acknowledges the profound pain and discord that is the outcome of social and economic oppression, so often justified by theories of difference.

My narrators faced difficulties and setbacks unimaginable to me before I began this project, yet the great majority of them continued to participate in community-based activism well into their advanced years. Their example has convinced me, as Elizabeth Meixell put it, that We’re here and we might as well do something.¹⁴ Ethel Velez is currently trying to organize the whole city to prevent the privatization of public housing, while Jan Peterson is a leader in the global feminist movement and founder of Grassroots Organizations Operating Together in Sisterhood (GROOTS International), a nonprofit dedicated to increasing the participation of women in development of their communities. Steven Wizner, a former staff attorney for MFY, supervises Yale law school students working with low-income and undocumented New Haven residents in clinics run by Immigration Legal Services and Legal Services for Immigrant Communities. When I interviewed Ezra Birnbaum at age seventy-four in 2005, he was retired, but still working full-time as an organizer; at the time he was recruiting pharmacists, EMTs, paramedics, and other health care workers to join Chapter 1199 of the Service Employees International Union. He explained, It’s always worthwhile to be part of and help create movements for social change . . . because one never knows what it’s going to turn into.¹⁵

While I did not always know where my graduate training would lead, the more I studied and taught history, the more I found myself drawn to those accounts of ordinary people transforming their own lives in an attempt to change the course of events. I wanted to know: How do people make meaning in their own lives? How might I emulate them in addressing the issues facing my own generation? My idea to turn to grassroots activists for answers was confirmed when, during the NCNW reunion at Smith College in 2004, attendees were granted an unusual privilege: access to the archival storage vault. As we entered the vast climate-controlled room filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves, a staff member pointed to the NCNW records, which interestingly enough are shelved alongside Gloria Steinem’s papers. Several NCNW members grew teary-eyed, moved by this visual recognition that they are as important to history as the best-known American spokeswoman for feminism.¹⁶ Our visit to the vault that day confirmed for me the importance of documenting and disseminating the history of community activists who, while seldom recognized for their contributions, have important stories to tell about social change in the United States.

Abbreviations

ACLU

American Civil Liberties Union

ACORN

Association of Community Organizations for Reform Now

ACT UP

AIDS Coalition To Unleash Power

AFDC

Aid to Families with Dependent Children

BID

Business Improvement District

CAP

Community Action Program

CARASA

Committee for Abortion Rights and Against Sterilization Abuse

CDC

Centers for Disease Control

CETA

Comprehensive Employment and Training Act

CORE

Congress of Racial Equality

FHA

Federal Housing Authority

GRID

Gay-Related Immune Deficiency

GROOTS

Grassroots Organizations Operating Together in Sisterhood

HOLC

Home Owners’ Loan Corporation

HUD

Department of Housing and Urban Development

JTPA

Job Training Partnership Act

LENA

Lower Eastside Neighborhood Association

MOM

Mobilization of Mothers

MFY

Mobilization for Youth

NAACP

National Association for the Advancement of Colored People

NAG

Negro Action Group

NAN

National Association of Neighborhoods

NCNW

National Congress of Neighborhood Women

NEA

National Endowment for the Arts

NGO

Nongovernmental Organization

NIH

National Institutes of Health

NOW

National Organization for Women

NNC

Northside Neighborhood Committee

NYCPHA

New York City Public Housing Authority

OEO

Office of Economic Opportunity

PATCO

Professional Air Traffic Controllers Organization

PCJD

President’s Committee on Juvenile Deliquency and Youth Crime

RRC

Reproductive Rights Coalition

TANF

Temporary Aid to Needy Families

TOP

Tenant Opportunity Program

UFT

United Federation of Teachers

UN

United Nations

UNB

United Bronx Parents

WEP

Work Experience Program

WHAM!

Women’s Health Action and Mobilization

YAAG

Young Adult Action Group

YELL

Youth Education Life Line

Mobilizing New York

Introduction

In July 1991, a group of gay men from the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power (ACT UP) joined activists from Women’s Health Action and Mobilization (WHAM!) on a memorable ferry ride to the Statue of Liberty. It was not the first time that gay men and reproductive rights feminists had traveled to the iconic monument together; rather, this excursion was a culmination of many, many, many reconnaissance trips and detailed planning. Dressed conservatively, they carried balloons and concrete blocks covered in colorful wrapping paper, which they deliberately displayed for the benefit of the security cameras. Once they reached Liberty Island, they headed to the top of the statue, used keys to open the windows, and placed a banner over Lady Liberty’s face reading No Choice, No Liberty. This gag was designed to represent the Supreme Court’s recent gag rule in Rust v. Sullivan, which upheld a domestic ban on abortion counseling at federally funded family-planning clinics. Simultaneously, other activists draped a 900-foot-long banner over the statue’s pedestal that read Abortion is Healthcare—Healthcare is a Right. Park rangers hurriedly removed the banners, a move WHAM! had anticipated; photographer Meryl Levin captured a shot of the display before rangers could remove it.¹ (See figure 1.)

The Statue of Liberty protest and similar direct actions conducted between the 1960s and the early 1990s allowed social activists to appropriate New York’s landmarks and give them new meaning. WHAM!’s powerful image of impingement on women’s freedom reached a broad audience when Levin’s photograph and accompanying stories ran in newspapers across the United States and internationally.² As WHAM! member Karen Ramspacher explained, Whenever we conceived an action . . . we tried to do it in such a way that the media could access it and get the message quickly, so that they would cover it, so that more people would read about it.³ By selecting the Statue of Liberty as the site of their protest, WHAM! ensured that reporters and editors, as well as onlookers, would rapidly understand the connection they were drawing between individual freedom, misunderstandings of American exceptionalism, and women’s reproductive autonomy.

New York’s many landmarks provide a range of unique venues for activism. Demonstrations, marches, strikes, acts of civil disobedience, and even poster campaigns are ensured global reach as print, broadcast, and online media inform the greater public. In addition, New Yorkers often travel by foot, rub shoulders on the subways and sidewalks, and utilize the city’s many parks during lunch breaks or after work. Along with the tens of millions of tourists the city hosts every year, these residents and workers provide a built-in audience for activists, whose attention-grabbing graphics, words, and performances transform the city’s spaces into forums for critical and creative expression. Activists can usually rely on their fellow New Yorkers to be open-minded enough to listen and savvy enough to get their jokes.

New Yorkers’ long history of direct action provides resources to activists as well. Labor militancy, rent strikes, and mass gatherings have drawn in generations of New Yorkers, many of them immigrants learning strategies from one another. In the twentieth century, New York was the site of significant demonstrations for labor unions and workers’ rights, women’s suffrage, peace, civil rights, economic justice, opposition to urban renewal, gay rights, feminism, and a nuclear freeze, among other causes. Free expression is part of the city’s enduring appeal, along with diversity of all kinds and vibrant intellectual and artistic communities engaged with the metropolis around them, often contributing ideas and members to movements. Frequently, mass demonstrations in New York have influenced activists in other places, and led to changes in social policy.⁴

One such example was the devastating Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911, in which 146 people—mostly young Italian and Eastern European Jewish immigrant women—died in a locked building in Washington Square. The tragedy strengthened the resolve of garment workers to unionize and to demand government regulation of working conditions. They took to the streets by the hundreds of thousands, held mass meetings in the Great Hall of Cooper Union, went on strike, and worked with allies, including middle-class progressive reformers and liberal politicians, to enact protective labor legislation at the state level. Later, during the New Deal, Congress adopted New York’s model labor legislation at the national level: the 1935 National Labor Relations (Wagner) Act guaranteed workers the right to unionize and to bargain collectively, and the 1935 Social Security Act established federal unemployment income, old-age insurance, and workers’ compensation.⁵

In the mid-twentieth century, urban studies theorist and activist Jane Jacobs led a movement to oppose city plans to extend Fifth Avenue through Washington Square Park, a design that included the construction of the Lower Manhattan Expressway (Lomex) through SoHo and the Lower East Side. Jacobs mobilized city dwellers and changed the way urban planners in cities across North America and Europe thought about redevelopment and community participation in planning processes.⁶ Jacobs collaborated with other leaders, including Catholic priest Gerald La Mountain and Puerto Rican activist Ernesto Martinez, to organize residents and to challenge city plans for construction of the highway through some of the oldest neighborhoods in the city.⁷ Through her writing, public speaking, and willingness to be arrested during acts of civil disobedience—and her committed defiance of powerful development czar Robert Moses—Jacobs succeeded not only in stopping the Lomex but in inspiring other resident-led freeway revolts that eliminated highways planned in thickly settled urban neighborhoods in Boston, San Francisco, Baltimore, Milwaukee, New Orleans, Philadelphia, and Toronto.⁸

In June 1969 in Jacobs’s beloved Greenwich Village, gay men and lesbians at the Stonewall Inn on Christopher Street fought back against police trying to arrest them. The Stonewall Riots led to a sea change in the consciousness of gay men and lesbians and sparked the birth of the modern gay and lesbian rights movement; pioneering gay rights leader Lilli Vincenz recalled people who had felt oppressed now felt empowered.⁹ Inspired by the uprising, activists formed the Gay Liberation Front and the Gay Activist Alliance, both of which attacked institutionalized homophobia and encouraged gay men and lesbians to come out of the closet and live openly as homosexuals. In 1970, gay men and lesbians gathered to commemorate the Stonewall Uprising and marched from Christopher Street to Central Park in the first New York Gay Pride March, while simultaneous demonstrations took place in Los Angeles and Chicago. The gay and lesbian rights movement quickly achieved victories including the 1973 removal of homosexuality from the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) and the passage of civil rights ordinances banning discrimination based on sexual orientation.¹⁰

Recent events such as the centennial commemorations of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire in 2011, the celebrations of Jane Jacobs’s life in 2007–8, and the annual New York Gay Pride March have ensured that the legacies of the early actions persist in the collective memory of New Yorkers, providing models and, in some cases, continuities between social movements in terms of participants, goals, strategies, and tactics. These public remembrances give even the most recent of New Yorkers a sense of the historical significance of their city, and implicitly, their own potential to make history. Most importantly, commemorations of these events convey the message that ordinary people, through collective action, can advance change in the world.¹¹

While the rich activist histories of some sites, like the Stonewall Inn or the Triangle Building, are periodically excavated and harnessed for new movement goals during commemorations, New York’s many landmarks provide activists with immediately recognizable symbols. Wall Street, Madison Avenue, Times Square, Broadway, the United Nations, and even Trump Tower: all these places resonate as centers of American economic, cultural, and political power. The stock exchange and Federal Reserve Bank on Wall Street epitomize the free-market system, while the advertising firms and luxury retailers on Madison Avenue reflect the consumer culture and the wealth and inequality it generates. Countless young women have hoped for an engagement ring from Tiffany & Co., the jewelry store featured in Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s and its 1961 film version starring Audrey Hepburn; they plan pilgrimages to the company’s 5th Avenue flagship and neighboring stores, and Tiffany’s iconic shopping bags symbolize success and upward mobility. To the poor people and antipoverty workers who staged a 1966 demonstration at the nearby New York headquarters of the Office of Economic Opportunity, in contrast, Madison Avenue represented money being unfairly withheld from people who need it by savages.¹² Home to broadcast stations and theaters, Times Square and Broadway conjure up American media and cultural dominance, while the United Nations and One World Trade Center represent America’s post–World War II global leadership as well as the challenges to it. They are icons not just of New York, but of the United States and its role in the world.

Just as its landmarks can be read in multiple ways, symbolizing both freedom and repression, New York has long been perceived as simultaneously distinctive and representative of America. On the one hand, Americans recognize New York’s central role in generating economic growth, developing cultural and media dominance, and shaping national politics. On the other hand, New York’s large foreign-born population leads critics to label it un-American, and its combination of great wealth and deep poverty has led to its association with social problems. The city is identified both with the elite, the movers and shakers who make this country rich and powerful, and with the poor, foreign, bohemian, and dangerous. New York is at once both the core of the nation and on the periphery of the heartland. As one WHAM! poster, responding to antiabortion activists in the National Right to Life Committee who planned a human cross demonstration in Midtown Manhattan in 1991, put it, New York isn’t Wichita (See figure 2).¹³

To residents of Middle America, New York can indeed seem like its own country, and yet Americans’ sense of identity in the decades following World War II has been tied to the fortunes of the United States’ largest city. During the early years of the Cold War, New York showcased the growing prosperity of the nation as massive urban renewal projects, including public housing in East Harlem, the Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts on Manhattan’s West Side, the middle-class housing developments of Stuyvesant Town and Peter Cooper Village on the Lower East Side, and the United Nations complex transformed the landscape of the city, while the Cross-Bronx Expressway and new parkways, bridges, and tunnels channeled commuters into the rapidly spreading suburbs.¹⁴ Although federal transportation, housing, and defense policy was shifting the nation’s center of gravity to the Sunbelt and the suburbs, New York City remained important. By general consent,Time magazine declared in 1962, Manhattan is the U.S.’s cultural capital, the greatest concentration of taste and wealth in the nation.¹⁵ Artists, in particular abstract expressionists, and the concentration of world-class universities helped realize city boosters’ dreams of New York becoming an international cultural capital as well.¹⁶

New York’s model social welfare system that allowed average Americans to partake in the nation’s economic success and enjoy a high quality of life was also a source of pride. Buoyed by strong labor unions and liberal political leadership from Democratic mayor Robert F. Wagner Jr. (1954–65) and moderate Republican governor Nelson A. Rockefeller (1959–73), New York built what Joshua Freeman has termed a municipal social democracy that offered white working- and middle-class New Yorkers affordable housing, health care, pensions, cost-of-living wage increases, access to public higher education, and public transit.¹⁷ Civil rights leaders fought to win the inclusion of African Americans in New York’s social democracy, and they valued public provision of social welfare programs and sought to hold government responsible for ensuring access to good jobs, housing, education and health care, as well as an end to police brutality.¹⁸ With the support of their allies in New York’s communist left, civil rights activists won landmark legislation, including the 1945 Ives-Quinn Law banning discrimination in private employment and